Suddenly Rusty was Fred
by just-grey
Summary: EC. Challenge fic. "And this time you don't want to slap it off and then kiss him, you just want to kiss him. No slapping needed. No apologies needed. No more tallies. Just Eric."


**Disclaimer:** _Dont own. Shucks._

**A/N:** _Challenge fic from the Hipphugger Story Challenge Thread over at Shabam! Lol, hope you likes! It sort of from Calleigh's POV, since I always do Eric's I'd thought I might try my hand at Calleigh. Who would'a thought she's so sarcastic?_

**Elements used:**

_A torn Sweater—check!_

_The Moon—check!_

_Getting Burned by Hot Cocoa—check!_

* * *

You can just hear the concern about to pop out of his mouth. Damn him and his ever need of making sure you were okay. Damn him and his ever growing list of why you should be with him instead of constantly thinking about it, your confidence diminished when you start talking-ready to finally make your move. Ready to finally tell him how you feel. Ready to finally feel. Because you know everything besides his love or affection will amount to nothing. No, you've never felt. Not yet. Because when you lay down at night, ready to catch some good nights rest, he isn't right there beside you. Nor is he there in your kitchen, you chuckling at him because he burnt his tongue on the hot cocoa you two had just made. No, because you haven't made the initiative to let these events happen, and he's to concerned that he might push you; farther, farther away to where he wont be able to grab your hand and pull you back into his arms. His oh so warm, comforting, inviting arms, the arms that you get lost in; one, because he's more than half times bigger than you, and two, because you don't want to be found, lurking in his strong arms which comfort you, which make your arms get those annoying little goose bumps. And you hate that. You hate that he's so damn concerning about your well being. Even if it's listening to you babble about the poor puppies kept in a small shed in some perp's backyard. 

For an hour.

Talking about puppies.

Hell, you might as well be talking about bright rainbows and pretty pink unicorns. Damn him and his stupid concern. You bet he'd listen to you talk about anything. Even if it was about how bad your cramps were last week.

He'd listen with wide ears, nodding, placing a gentle hand on your arm, responding back to you as if you two were actually talking about something important.

"I think I might adopt one of those puppies." You hear yourself say, you don't know how that sentence came out of your mouth, nor do you know when you'd even thought about it.

He turned to you, smirking that goofy-yet-oh-so-cute-smirk. That damn smirk. You just want to slap it off of him, but then you don't, because you know if you did you'd probably end up kissing the hurt away.

And then it would all be okay in the end.

Yeah, right, and Hitler was the greatest man alive.

"That sounds great Cal," he says with such enthusiasm that you have the thought to slap him again. But, of course, you resist…again. In all seriousness you don't know why you don't, because if you do you'll end up apologizing, then he'll say its okay and you don't need to apologize, which will add yet another tally on the 'Why I Should Stop Being a Sapp and Just Admit to Eric that I Need Him' list. Which, inevitably, will make you forget the list, make you forget your insecurities, and plant a big one on him.

So much for the innocent Southern woman.

"Cal?" Damn. You've lost yourself in your thoughts and now he's looking at you as if you need to lie down…or be admitted into a mental facility.

"Yeah?" Innocent tone. Perfect.

Make it sound like you were actually listening to his voice. His soft, honey-like voice, streaming with a creamy harmonic tone.

Damn.

There you go again, another tally…because his voice makes you melt, makes you want to spill your heart out to him.

Damn him to Hell.

"You okay? You sorta zoned out of me for a second there." Well of course you did, your stupid voice made me tingle all over and I had to count up all the tallies you have in favor of you, you twit. But, of course, you never say this to him, of course. Instead you reply (idiotically, of course):

"Fine. I was just thinking of which one I was gonna take home. There was this really cute one that sorta clung to me. I think his name was Rusty." What!?

And in all honestly, you're not really thinking of how now you actually have to take that cute pup home, but who in their right mind would name a dog Rusty. He didn't at all look like a Rusty when you first laid eyes on him.

He was white.

All white.

Obviously the idiot who had named him was high…on everything. Maybe adopting this pup would be a good thing for you.

Maybe. You're not at all certain. At all.

"Who the hell would name that dog Rusty?" He asks you, and oh boy do you laugh. Another tally, for now he knows your thoughts, can talk to you about similar interests; laugh about things you had both thought in your demented brains.

Damn him once again.

"That's exactly what I was thinking." Honest to God. It truly was, although most people might not know that. They don't know how cynical or bitterly sarcastic you can be. They know you as: sweet, caring, honest.

They really should watch some movies with you, because boy can you be bitter sarcastic when watching a sappy, unrealistic, chick flick; laughing at the absurdness of it and the stupidity of the two "star-crossed" lovers.

Idiots. All of them.

"Hey Eric, do you think you could come with me?" What kind of idiotic question was that? Sometimes you think you're a star in one of those sappy, unrealistic, chick flicks and boy do you want it to be a good ending. Hopefully you both don't die in this movie you two are staring in.

That would ruin it. An idiotic ending. Just like your question.

"Yeah, sure. Maybe while we're there I can check out the pets they have; Rosa's little boy has been bugging her about getting a pet. I'll check out what they have for her, save her the hassle; she's been stressing too much." Damn him and his stupid concern for others, whether it be family or a woman he just met.

Damn his older sister.

Damn his older sister's son who wants a stupid pet.

You never got a pet when you were a kid.

"Awe, Eric that's sweet." Teasing.

It's a form of art. And you've mastered it.

You know when to tease, when no to, how to tease flirtatiously, how to tease menacingly.

He's blushing. That sweet, sort-of-pink-yet-not-quite-there blush and its creeping its way onto his cheeks and into your heart.

He doesn't respond, just smiles, his gaze holding yours, you try to look away, but can't…in fact you don't want to. His brown pools are mesmerizing; you're lost in their depth, their honesty burning a hole into your flesh, paralyzing your movements, capturing your heart-yet again.

"I'll pick you up at four okay?" And then the moment dissolves, but its okay, because you know if it were to continue their might be some serious consequences of your boss discovering a make out session in the break room.

But he's forgiven, because his voice does that soft tone dropping sound and you melt yet again, like dark chocolate boiling to be made into a rich bar of delight.

You nod and you manage a feasible smile, standing slowly and walking out through the door, peering, turning back at him as you giddily take your leave.

And suddenly, as though his longing eyes have cured all, your cynical thoughts are gone, the list forgotten, and now, Rusty's name is no longer that, but now Fred.

Oh great, one look at Eric's eyes and your already naming the damn dog.

You haven't even gotten it yet and your already naming it, how pathetic are you?

Pretty damn pathetic.

Of course, when Eric picks you up and you arrive at the shelter claiming you want to adopt "Rusty", and, when the too cheery, too busty volunteer girl takes you to see "Rusty" your gone. Gone.

You're lost. But, found. You're not making sense.

You feel nervous, as if picking him up will break him, although you throw that thought out as his big bulging black orbs stare at you, plead at you, begging. And you can't resist it.

Fred, damn him…he's just like Eric.

"Rusty" is just a puppy, barely two months old, so when you start calling him Fred instead of Rusty he doesn't mind. He's not confused as you thought he'd be. In fact, when all is said and done (shots, paperwork, license, and one-hundred fifty dollars short) he wags his stubby little tail at you when you and Eric come back for him, you calling out: "Hey Fred! Come on boy, time to go home."

Home. That word seems foreign to you, but not Fred.

He knows. He knows he's your "baby" now, he knows he's going "home" with you, and he knows he'll be sleeping with you; cuddled underneath thick blankets.

Eric smiles down at you as you pick Fred up, him licking your face.

Puppy breath. You've never experienced it before.

You're slightly revolted, yet, slightly amused. You can't explain it. And you're frustrated because you can't explain a lot of things these days.

The car ride back to your place is in silence, but it's a comfortable silence. Fred's fallen asleep in your arms, his droopy ears covering his eyes, but only slightly. You think it's cute, and you have the sudden urge to snap a picture of him.

But then again you also have the urge to slam the brakes, reach over and kiss Eric. Neither happens though.

"He's cute," Eric starts, but you doubt he'll finish.

Maybe. Possibly. Not likely.

You enjoy the short sentences, enjoy how you two can say so little yet have it mean so much, so much it hurts.

Sometimes. On occasion. A lot.

You turn to him and smile, it's genuine this time.

Not one of those fake smiles. Not one of those hurt smiles. Not one of those I-want-to-kiss-you-so-badly-but-I'm-not-going-to smiles…you really hate those smiles.

He's arrived at your place, you don't really want to get out, but you know you have to. You know you can't just sit here, all night, with Eric and Fred, talking, sleeping, anything, everything, nothing at all.

You begin to exit his car, but turn, not really thinking, but thinking too much at the same time.

"You wanna come in?" You ask him.

Innocent enough. Not really. Highly suggestive, yet not. Not at all.

He shrugs, nods, exits the car and walks with you up the path. The moon shines brightly on his skin, his warm tones, his soft face (you know, especially his cheek). You wonder when it suddenly turned from day to night, but then remember you got at the shelter at five-thirty and it takes about a half and hour to get back from the shelter to your place, and, of course you had to stop at the local pet market to get Fred's food plus some other necessities, of course.

Hot cocoa. Just like your imaginary scenario, except…better.

Better than imagined. Definitely better than you imagined.

Oh course, this time it had been you who had burnt your tongue from the hot scorches of the freshly brewed cocoa.

This was a different feeling. Definitely more different than before, when you were ten greedily grabbing the hot beverage in the comfort of your childhood home. Of course, back then you were naïve. Of course, back then you knew how hot is was, but you didn't care, mum was making her specialty hot cocoa; rich with love, rich with the dark chocolate, rich with the best milk. Of course, that had been before.

Before.

A pleasant word.

Past.

A not so pleasant word.

Eric had consoled you, of course, reaching into your fridge as if it was the most natural thing in the world, pulling out some bread; urging you to eat it. Of course you had stared dumbly at him, as if he was some mental patient. But, he just smiled and urged again to eat the slice.  
"Just eat it Cal." He had said, and, of course, you listened.

The bread didn't cure your burnt tongue completely, but it did feel much better. Great. Another tally. You hadn't even thought about your list until now, and it was his entire fault.

Yes.

His fault.

All of it.

"Better?" He asked with a smirk on his face.

Cute.

Real cute.

And this time you don't want to slap it off and then kiss him, you just want to kiss him. No slapping needed. No apologies needed. No more tallies. Just Eric.

And you. And lips.

With Fred sleeping silently on your couch.

And then there's that moment again. Where you just stand there…staring.

Words are spoken with your eyes. You can't explain it; you don't think you'll ever be able to. Although you cant explain a lot these days.

He's still staring at you as he sets his mug down on the counter behind him, your kitchen is quite small, so what.

His steps are swift, his hands reaching toward yours. Or is it your face? You can't really tell, because your not looking anywhere but his eyes.

Hypnotizing.

But it's such a wonderful feeling, knowing what's gong to occur within a matter of minutes, yet, not knowing anything at all.

You feel his hand touch yours.

Tingling.

Goose bumps.

All over.

A pleasure full chill running up your spine, spreading up and out into your veins, into your bloodstream.

What is it? You know the answer, but you don't want to answer it.

Not yet. No, not yet.

He's taking his time. Making sure he's not over stepping his boundaries.

His eyes are dancing with yours: the tango. He's leading, but ever so cautious and slow, uncertain.

So you take over, you lead, you guide, you make your move. He's surprised when you reach up with your other hand and pull him down to you.

Lips crashing,

Down.

But you're up, your high. High with passion. High with anything, everything, nothing. Nothing at all.

Love.

Nothing is your high, because nothing is your love. Everything is nothing and Eric is all.

You wake.

Whole.

Complete.

Fred licking you naked toes and Eric's arm wrapped protectively around your waist. You turn into his arms. His oh so comfortable, inviting, warm arms.

You sigh.

Content. Something you haven't felt in a long time. Because you haven't felt.

But, yet, you have. You look down at the ground you favorite sweater, half of it torn and you avert you gaze toward Fred who is staring guiltily at you.

You shrug. It was a cheap sweater anyway, and besides, its Fred, he's only a puppy.

And you just can't be mad at that adorable face and those guilty eyes.

You stare back at his peaceful face, a small smile on his sleeping lips. You reach up, slightly, kissing his lips and he wakes kissing you back.

And you're lost.

Oh so lost, but you'd rather not be found; because your lost in Eric's arms, Eric's touch, Eric's kiss, Eric's love.

And that's paradise.

And who would want to be taken away from paradise? You wouldn't.

What is it?

And you think of your answer, even though you don't need to think. You know, and knowing does not require thought.

You knew.

You've known.

He knew.

And now you both know.

Your answer?

His answer?

The answer?

Love.

* * *

_Hope you liked! Leave me some sexay reviews and I'll give you a lollipop!_


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